


(su)stain

by vissy



Category: Zetsuai and Bronze
Genre: Hirose/Akihito - Freeform, Hirose/Izumi - Freeform, Hirose/Kurauchi - Freeform, M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-25
Updated: 2004-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vissy/pseuds/vissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the 2004 <a href="http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/">Yuletide Challenge</a>. For Falstaff, who requested something about Hirose and Akihito. Bear in mind, one of her other requests was for <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0129332/">Ravenous</a> fic. Takes place directly after the last scene in the seventh volume.</p>
    </blockquote>





	(su)stain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2004 [Yuletide Challenge](http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/). For Falstaff, who requested something about Hirose and Akihito. Bear in mind, one of her other requests was for [Ravenous](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0129332/) fic. Takes place directly after the last scene in the seventh volume.

Izumi leaves the building, taking his ring with him. By the time Hirose stubs out his cigarette, his eyes discover Izumi on the path far below; there should be nothing to distinguish him from the crowd around him, but he stands out somehow. The ring is raised high above his head, catching the winter sunlight. Hirose removes his glasses and watches the world blur; he wonders if he ever touched Izumi at all.

Laughter bubbles up again, tugging at his stitches; humour never goes unpunished, even when he only laughs at himself. He touches his abdomen absently, then reaches once more for the telephone and dials.

“Dr Kajiura speaking.” The doctor sounds impatient.

“I apologise for the inconvenience.” Hirose is sincere; the good doctor has more than earned his keep this week. He means to request more pain medication, so it is strange to hear himself say, “I’ve changed my mind. Please have the object delivered to my home.”

“Of course,” says the doctor, betraying no surprise. Perhaps he was expecting it, even if Hirose was not.

“Thank you.” Hirose disconnects the line and fills the empty office with his laughter. He knows Koji will not return, and it appears that anticlimax does not suit Hirose after all.

He is not alone for long; Akihito cannot contain his curiosity, and bursts in without knocking. Hirose’s laughter is silenced, but a faint smile remains; he puts his glasses back on and resumes his seat with relief. “Were you listening at the door?”

“Of course not,” says Akihito. He pouts playfully, but there is something like real anger in his face. “What did _he _want?”

“He came for Koji’s ring.”

Akihito sneers. “Figures. Rotten little gold-digger.”

“You have no sense of romance,” says Hirose, shaking his head.

“Don’t make me ill. What are they, married now?”

“Perhaps they are.” He remembers Izumi’s brilliant gaze; they were the eyes of a man who has taken possession. And Hirose has nothing.

Nothing but Akihito, who depends on Hirose’s kindness. “Can you just imagine what they do together?” asks Akihito with a theatrical shudder. To Hirose he looks ten years old again, repelled and entranced in turn by the changeling child thrust so rudely into their lives.

“A less interested man would not think to imagine,” he says pointedly. He really must see about finding Akihito a bride.

Akihito flushes with embarrassment at this gentle rebuke; he is as pale as Hirose, and the high colour does not become him. “So Koji doesn’t want his arm back?”

“It seems not.”

“Stubborn madman. I can’t understand him.”

“He is not so different from us.” Perhaps it is a weakness of the blood, that they must all spend themselves in hopeless fixation, although only Koji has the egotism to transform himself into a breathing, bleeding metaphor. Even Hirose cannot exercise subtlety or moderation in the grip of the heart’s hunger, and Hirose can never have what he wants; the approval of a dead man is lost to him.

“Don’t say that,” says Akihito, dropping to his knees beside Hirose. “Don’t think of him, brother. He’s nothing.”

Hirose is confused for a moment; does Akihito speak of Koji or Ryuichiro? Akihito reaches out and touches Hirose’s side gently, and sweat gathers at Hirose’s brow. Through clothing and bandages, he can feel Akihito’s fingertips catching on the stitches. It is an effective appeal for attention, making Hirose’s skin creep and complain. He removes his gloves and turns Akihito’s hand in his own; the clasp is loose until Akihito tightens it, forcing the tacky suction of palm and pressure. He can see his own fingertips reddening to match the flush across Akihito’s cheeks, and then Akihito presses his brow to Hirose’s knee, and Hirose can no longer see his face. “Akihito…”

“How could he?” Akihito whispers. “I can’t understand him.” Hirose can feel the words, hot and muffled, through his trousers. He brushes Akihito’s hair behind his ear, and Akihito turns his head into the touch, until Hirose finds the wet gleam of Akihito’s left eye upon him, the eye he so rarely sees.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” Hirose says, and his voice carries more tenderness than he intends. “This soap opera becomes wearisome.”

“You should be resting.” Akihito has said this already, but his tone is quiet now, and carries more weight. “You know I can take care of business.”

“I know.” It is what he has trained Akihito for, and it is what he fears. He traces the delicate curves of Akihito’s ear and strokes the lobe, as soft and downy as Tatsuomi’s. He could kill Akihito as he lies in his lap, but has no heart or strength for it. A teardrop melts like a brand into his thigh, and Akihito turns away with a quiet choking sound; the lank strands fall forward, veiling his face once more. “Share a meal with me tonight, just the two of us.”

Akihito’s face brightens; he is so easy. “I look forward to it,” he says, rising to his feet. There is an odd hitch to his gait as he leaves the room, and Hirose observes him narrowly; despite his hip wound, Izumi’s stride had been smooth. Thoughtful, Hirose phones Kurauchi with instructions.

The year is slowly burning itself out, leaving Hirose breathless and hollow. He does not think anymore of suicide, but death remains at the very edge of his vision, finding its focus in the business he settles. The school is his most pressing concern; Nadeshiko will be formally presented at the turn of the year for the family’s consideration. Hirose believes she will do well. He must believe this, just as he must believe that Kaoruko carries a son.

The sliding doors are open, letting the cool night air in, and the tatami mats are fresh beneath his knees. Far above the snow-filled garden, the moon shines plump and radiant; Hirose can see no evidence of bloodstains in the wash of its light through the room. He worries his memory for the sound of Koji’s music, for the way this home once trembled with the grim sadness of Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata, but it is gone now. There is only Akihito’s soft breath beside him, and Kurauchi’s footsteps in the hall. They drink their warm sake in silence.

Kurauchi soon enters with their food, and sets the dishes before them with his careful grace. It is a simple meal, for they are both light eaters, and the stab wound in his gut has robbed Hirose of much of his appetite: just a clear soup, rice, steamed vegetables and grilled meat. Hirose straightens his back beneath the weight of Kurauchi’s concern and helps himself to the thin brown strips which glisten with mirin’s lustre in the candlelight. Akihito slurps at his soup, hissing a little at its heat, while Hirose chews meditatively, swallows, and motions Kurauchi to leave.

Akihito’s eyes follow him out the door before returning to Hirose. “Did _he _prepare this food?”

Hirose nods while Akihito spears some meat with his chopsticks. “Kurauchi used to make many of my meals in America. I think he likes the chance to feed me every now and again.”

Akihito humphs quietly, then swallows his mouthful. “It’s not bad, I suppose. The meat’s a bit tough though, and he uses far too much wine.”

Hirose smiles; Akihito’s jealousy of Kurauchi does not prevent him from reaching for more. Hirose takes another bite himself, and agrees silently with Akihito’s assessment, although he considers it testament to Kurauchi’s skills that the meal is palatable at all.

They consume the meal in quiet companionship, finishing up with green tea and pickles. It is more food than Hirose has managed in several days, and his stitches pull uncomfortably over his full belly. Akihito’s face glows in the guttering candlelight, and Hirose reaches over to brush some rice from his chin, making him giggle. Akihito is effortless to please, even if his good cheer never lasts long.

Hirose calls Kurauchi to remove the empty dishes, and lowers his head in assent beneath Kurauchi’s unconsciously stern expression. Akihito observes their unspoken communication with a scowl, and says, “I will attend to you, brother.”

Hirose raises a brow, and Akihito quails. “Seek your bed now, Akihito; it is another long day tomorrow. Kurauchi will change my dressings.” Akihito’s shoulders slump for a moment, and Hirose cups his cheek with a tender hand. “_Attend _to me, brother, and go to sleep.”

Akihito nestles into his palm, the barest motion, then straightens and leaves the room, his stride proud. Hirose watches him go, and says softly to Kurauchi, “He has always been an obedient shadow, hasn’t he? Not like Koji, who resists the needle and thread. My poor baby brother. For all my dreams of taking him apart, I would put him back together again if he would only let me.” Kurauchi grunts, a noncommittal sound, and Hirose turns to him and cocks his head curiously. “You doubt me? I thought you understood me better than that. I’m always hungry; you and Akihito must needs love me, but Koji’s love would be a thing worth having, if he offered it freely.” Kurauchi’s face is drawn in stark lines of misery, and Hirose checks himself with a sigh. “Forgive me. My words are ill-chosen.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I hope you will always speak plainly with me.” Kurauchi takes his wrist in a firm grip, preventing his restless fumbling at the bandages. “Do you feel better now?”

Hirose takes stock of himself and nods slowly. The hole inside him is no easy thing to fill, not even for a heartbeat’s measure, but he finds some strength in the trying. “Did you taste him, Kurauchi?”

“You know I did not.”

“Then taste him now,” he says, raising his face, and Kurauchi takes his mouth and licks the sheen from his lips.

Hirose will soak the bones in vinegar and bide his time. The great swords _Go-Shinto_ and _Mumei Masamune_ were never truly his to wield, but he will carve his own weapons.

***

**su **_n._ **1** nest; breeding place; cobweb; haunt. **2** vinegar.


End file.
